


Lost Countries

by WerewolvesAreReal



Category: Temeraire - Naomi Novik
Genre: AU Book 1: His Majesty's Dragon, Amnesia, Dover, England (Country), M/M, Romance, What Are You Doing Laurence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-21
Updated: 2017-03-21
Packaged: 2018-10-08 14:37:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10389021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WerewolvesAreReal/pseuds/WerewolvesAreReal
Summary: The war with France has been oddly quiet of late, which is good (though frustrating) news for Temeraire, newly-trained and just learning to patrol the English coast. Meanwhile Laurence meets an amnesiac Frenchman in Dover and takes advantage of the covert's idleness.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Some hand-waving of language-stuff for communication purposes. In fairness these characters *are* very, very smart...

“Looking for company, Captain?”

Laurence ignores the call and examines a shop window before regretfully deciding that Temeraire would probably prefer some of the more academic texts from the cluttered place down the street; this shop appears to hold only a few battered novels. The woman who spoke to him waits a moment before wandering away, her feet weaving in unsteady patterns as she waves at a distant soldier.

The city of Dover has many perfectly fine qualities, but any city in close contact to a port or military base tends to fester with iniquities. Dover, unfortunately, is host to both. Naval soldiers glance askance when Laurence, in his brushed green coat, ducks inside a pub for lunch.

A harassed-looking woman serves him up the current stew and a crust of bread while Laurence tries to remember if Temeraire had requested a book from 'Ossian' or 'O'Brian'. There are many poets of the latter name, perhaps, but Laurence reflects that he would rather labor through a few bad Scottish laments on lost loves than a pseudo-Gallic epic that would only trigger Temeraire to become interested in Germanic history.

Nevertheless, he has just resigned himself to spending the rest of the day seeking out Ossian's epic – Temeraire will enjoy it more, even if _he_ won't – when he notices a stranger across the bar. The man is staring at his coat and frowning.

Laurence ignores him. Even here, right beside the covert, it isn't strange for people to be suspicious of aviators. He scrapes his spoon against the bottom of the bowl.

The man keeps staring.

He eats the bread, too, and cleans his hands meticulously; only then does he rise, and walk over, and say, “Is there something you wished to say to me, Sir?”

The stranger lifts his jaw and pauses for a moment.

Then he answers in Italian. Laurence blinks.

“Oh,” he falters, suddenly confused. In an attempt to find a common language Laurence switches to French: “Was there a reason you were watching me, Sir?”

The man looks relieved. “You are wearing a green uniform – I have seen them around the town,” he replies in kind. “But I do not know the service.”

The staring, then, was not a sign of disdain. Embarrassment at his own assumption makes Laurence sit beside the man. “I am a Captain with the Aerial Corps. Are you new to England?”

“No – I do not think so,” the man replies. After a moment he adds, “Forgive me – I call myself Alexander. And I am afraid I cannot remember where I am from. I have amnesia.”

This is stated with such unconcern that Laurence is taken aback. “Good god – you do not remember - ?”

“Anything. After two weeks ago; I was fortunate enough to have a good deal of francs when I washed to shore, which has not quite endeared me to anyone. But I have not been hanged as a spy yet.” Saying so Alexander takes a pull from his mug.

“A shipwreck? You must have had company.”

“None, no. And this is a very bland place – I hope I am not English,” says the man with that same disarming honesty. “It is cold here. And I cannot say the port has been very interesting.”

Laurence quashes his initial reaction against any affront toward his country; Alexander is clearly in a pitiable situation. “I would find it unlikely in the extreme, if you do not speak the language. But that makes it unfortunately difficult to imagine that you might find a way to your home.”

“Then I suppose I must find a new one,” says the man briskly. He does not seem inclined to dwell. “Finding a new path is all that remains – that cannot be so difficult.”

Laurence cannot share this perspective; to be utterly adrift, and not even share a common language with those around him, cannot be so easy as Alexander makes it sound. He is not sure what impulse spurs him to offer, “I was heading toward the shops – would you care to accompany me?”

Alexander seems to grow in energy when they walk. “You see they stare?” He proclaims in loud French. The looks increase. “As though I am a spy – the worst spy in history, I should think! But, enough, what are you doing in town? You are an aviator, you say – there are no dragons here.”

“The covert is up the hill,” says Laurence with slight surprise. Surely he has seen the formations flying drills. “I just came to finish some business, and to buy some books for Temeraire – my dragon.”

Alexander seems unfazed by this admission. “Does he read? There _are_ French translations here, but few; I can certainly show you the best bookshops. No, not that one, come.”

The 'best' shop seems to be a decrepit place, half-hidden between a bakery and a barber's whose bricks jut out into the street and half wrap around to cover the desired building. Laurence has to practically shuffle inside, but he is met with a sudden wall of texts that would delight Temeraire.

“They also have Latin,” Alexander adds, off-hand, which is knowledge he might have done without; now he will be obliged to get some musty tome droning on about logic or ill-humours, too.

When Laurence finally unveils Ossian's poems, Alexander exclaims, “What, are you reading that in English?”

“It was written in English,” is Laurence's bemused reply.

Alexander mutters something, looks through the shelves, and shoves a dusty red book at him. “The French version must be superior,” he insists, and with some amusement Laurence accepts the book. Temeraire could use the practice, anyway; so could he.

“It is good to know that someone here _reads,”_ Alexander says. “ - You would not believe the looks I receive, merely from carrying books!”

Laurence thinks that Alexander's apparently publicized amnesia may be rather more responsible for any strange looks; certainly he has never noticed the same while buying for Temeraire. He counts a few coins from his pocket to purchase the book, noting, “If you desire to speak with someone about literature, you should stop by the covert. Temeraire would be thrilled to have a debate.”

As they step outside Alexander glances down the winding road as if to see Dover covert rise from the ground. “Perhaps one day,” he concedes. Well, that is more willingness than most men would show toward dragons.

Again overtaken with some some strange impulse, Laurence offers, “Consider it then – and perhaps when I am next in town we could meet. I do hope you find a cure for your problem.”

“Would that be a good thing,” Alexander muses. “Perhaps my life was worth getting away from; or perhaps I am a soldier after all, and you should not want to know me! But if you will take that risk, yes, stop and visit. I think I would like to learn more about your Aerial Corps.”

* * *

 

“Sir,” says Hollins hesitantly.

“There is very little we can do,” says Laurence. The harness-master hesitates, glancing at the limping form of Levitas as the poor Winchester looks for a place to sleep. He circles the ground like a cat, tail dragging along the dirt, before finally keeling over with a thump. Dried blood still streaks the leather straps around his chest.

“But _Sir,”_ Hollins says, firmly enough that Laurence glances over with surprise. “I am sure that Captain Rankin will not be returning soon; he has only just begun his report, and - “

“Mr. Hollins, you have been an aviator longer than I. Captain Rankin has given explicit directions that we, and you especially, are not to attend to Levitas. Would you not consider it interference to countermand those directions?”

Hollins flushes and opens his mouth, so Laurence interjects, before the officer can damn himself:

“No, nothing more. Levitas will survive; all the surgeons say he will survive. We must be content with that.”

“He survives today,” Hollins snaps, and Laurence cannot reproach him. The man stalks off, away from the shadow of Levitas on the ground, and Laurence looks after him awhile. But sooner than he expects another form comes out of the darkness; Rankin, back after all against Hollins' predictions.

He approaches the huddled dragon. A tiny voice comes out of the night:

“Oh, are you here to see me, Captain?“

“We're going to London, get up,” Rankin snaps. “At once. Get up!”

Laurence finds that his hand has moved, quite involuntarily, to the grip of his pistol. He forces himself to take one step back, and then another. After a moment he turns abruptly and sets away for Temeraire's clearing.

Officially there have been no battles today. Rankin and Levitas heard some news in London which has not been passed on - “nothing confirmed”, Lenton keeps saying. But he seems excited. “It could be a trick,” is the other refrain, which only arouses curiosity further.

But Laurence, like everyone, must wait for the official announcements. Upon arriving to Temeraire's clearing he is surprised to find the dragon already occupied. Mounds of earth have been raised in front of the Imperial, and scraps of harness re-purposed and arranged in odd arrangements. Under the dragon's direction cadets Dyer and Roland rush around moving pieces to and fro over a huge section of the clearing while Temeraire himself watches with a critical eye.

“West, I think, and then if the third formation came in from the east with formation five – no, no, that is _north,_ Dyer, whatever have you been studying – Oh, Laurence! Do you see what we are learning?” And Temeraire nods proudly at the baffling array. “You always say that education and practice are very important.”

Laurence eyes the panting cadets. “Very good,” he says. “How long have you been working, Temeraire?”

“Oh, several hours. You said you would be gone all day - “ Temeraire shifts his eyes around casually, “ - so, I spoke to Lily a bit, but Harcourt wanted to discuss something boring like her family and I thought to better Emily and Peter here instead.”

“I see. Have you finished yet? It is only that I have retrieved several new books - “

“We are quite done,” says Temeraire hastily. Roland and Dyer spring forward to clear the field before he can change his mind. “What have you brought?”

So Laurence is obliged to show him the books, and Temeraire is appropriately admiring, of course. “Oh, and a French one!” he exclaims. The tiny slanted print of Ossian's poems almost seems to mock Laurence. “How interesting; Latin and English are very good, of course, but I should like to practice. But what made you buy it?”

Laurence hesitates. Some impulse restrains him from a full answer, but he will not lie to Temeraire, either. At last he says, “A gentleman recommended the text quite highly – he hopes you will enjoy the book, and asks that you relay your opinion on its entirety.”

Naturally, this is the first book Temeraire wants them to read.

* * *

 

The flying is very calm for the first hour of their patrol. But soon a pattern, now well-tried and worn, becomes apparent. No French dragons are seen far over the Channel, but near to the coast of France's beaches long and spinning formations shift and spin in slow, twisting patterns. Those that move farther out to sea, daring, dart away should the English drift anywhere close.

The pattern has persisted for almost a week and shows no sign of subsiding. Laurence cannot account for it. Unaccustomed to aerial techniques as he is, he has had a quiet word with John on the matter, but his first-lieutenant is equally baffled. “Oddest thing I've ever seen,” he declares. “I would think they're preparing an invasion, except no one is so obvious about it. I can't imagine what old Boney's doing.”

Temeraire, far from being curious, is mostly bored.

“When shall we have a fight,” he sighs now. “This is no better than drills. We _see_ some French dragons, I suppose, every now and again; but that means very little when we cannot fight them. And this ocean is worse than flying over land. You will forgive me, Laurence, but it does get very confusing after awhile, and much of it really looks very similar.”

They return to the covert a bit prematurely and in low spirits. For the seventh night Laurence takes out his book of Ossian's poems and prepares to read with Temeraire, but the dragon stops him to ask, “If all the fighting really stops, Laurence, would that mean that the war is over?”

Laurence winces and sets down his text. “I am afraid, dear, that nothing is so simple. A war may technically continue without any deaths or fighting. So long as two nations disagree, and refuse to make peace officially, we cannot assume the nation is safe.”

“But what is an _official_ peace?”

“It usually involves formal agreements – terms and conditions – binding contracts and concessions between two powers...”

“That is all very silly,” Temeraire decides. “I do not think I would be able to _talk_ very well with people who tried to have you killed; but if necessary I can be very superior and let stupid people live, so long as they are not near me. Surely it is too much to ask nations to be friendly after a war, which seems like a dreadful and violent thing. Is it not enough to simply stop fighting and be reasonable?”

“Then there would be no guarantee that one nation or another would not suddenly change their attitude and attack, Temeraire. If your queries arise because of France's late silence, I remind you that they may only be planning something, or restraining their movements in preparation for a later assault. We have no reason to suspect they may want peace.”

“But I am sure we will never have it if we keep killing each other,” Temeraire complains.

Laurence wisely does not say that Parliament might reject such an offer even if it was made.

“Ought we not do something about the matter,” says Temeraire, so speculatively that Laurence is at once alarmed. “If only an agreement is needed, and a bit of paper, I am sure we could find someone in France - “

“I do not think that would suit,” says Laurence hastily. “ - But if you are interested, my dear, I will try to procure you a book on all legal matters, including the good purpose of government and the issues of warfare, when next I go to Dover; I am sure there are experts who could explain the matter much better than I.”

Temeraire demurs, satisfied as usual with an offer of knowledge, and Laurence resigns himself to making yet another visit into town.

“That sounds quite excellent,” Temeraire says. “I would like to learn more; and perhaps we can learn about the French government from that visiting fellow, the Royalist.”

“I am sure Captain Choiseul would be happy to oblige you,” Laurence says, “Though he may know more of the old Kingdom than the current Empire.”

“That is even better; I would like to know all about this Revolution business that everyone keeps mentioning, even if I must hear about it from yet another person who thought it was wrong.”

Captain Choiseul is a royalist captain who stayed in France through the Revolution and Bonaparte's ascent to the Consul position; he fled, finally, when Napoleon appointed himself Emperor and ordered the execution of the Duke of Enghien on suspicions that that relative of the Bourbons had made an assassination attempt on Napoleon himself. His reasons for fleeing France were not particularly important to the English crown; his heavy-weight dragon, Praecursoris, was of far greater interest and the two had been warmly welcomed.

A chance to meet with Captain Choiseul – and his more reclusive dragon – comes just the next day; Choiseul and Praecursoris are waiting by the lake when Temeraire flies down for his usual swim, the French dragon already nosing at the water dubiously. He looks up when Temeraire approaches.

“I do not quite understand why you are always swimming,” the dragon demurs. “Are there not better things one could be doing?”

Temeraire bristles slightly and straightens his ruff. “There is no harm in it; and anyway, Laurence tells me that it is only good and dignified to be clean,” he tells the larger dragon loftily. Saying so he steps into the water with his head held high, evidently forgetting his earlier intentions to question the dragon and Choiseul about politics as he focuses on keeping one wary eye on the Chanson-de-Guerre.

Shaking his head at this posturing, Laurence turns to Captain Choiseul. “I heard they have had a few encounters; I hope none unpleasant,” he says, but the other captain just seems amused.

“Oh, they are both young. It does happen! But I have wanted to speak with you, Captain Laurence; you are such a curiosity at this covert.”

Laurence acknowledges this with a wry nod.

“A sea captain,” Choiseul continues. “And Temeraire was meant for the French Emperor, was he not?”

“He was,” Laurence confirms.

“However did you determine where the ship was?” Choiseul asks. “A spy?”

“Pure luck,” Laurence confesses. “We were entirely shocked to find his egg; baffled entirely to learn he was Chinese.”

Choiseul frowns slightly and turns to watch Choiseul a moment.

“I suppose Napoleon must have been furious,” says Laurence slowly. He finds it hard to imagine the monarch – any monarch – with a dragon; cannot imagine why it would have been desirable. In England it would only be a cause for suspicion, fear. But surely Napoleon could not have reacted to the news with equinimity.

“No. He was not pleased.” Choiseul pauses. Shifts uncertainly from foot to foot. “I suppose you would not have heard – Napoleon is missing.”

Laurence stares.

“I have already told Lenton,” Choiseul continues. “It is part of the reason I chose this moment to leave. France is trying to keep it quiet, I should think, but that will not work forever.”

They watch Temeraire dunk his head under the water; streams run over the arcs of his ruff, dribbling down his chin, and on the shore Praecursoric swipes one forehand at the surface with half-hearted bewilderment. He keeps glancing back at the pair of them.

“I suppose the Empire must do... something,” says Choiseul, half to himself. Laurence notices finally that the man has one hand tucked over his coat pocket, one hand tucked over a knife. Perhaps a traitor never feels safe.

Choiseul's words hang in the air. Then, drawing himself up, he turns to Praecursoris. “Perhaps we should return to formations,” he tells the dragon with a sigh.

Praecursoris sweeps his captain away without another word.

* * *

 

Alexander nearly drags him from the bookshop before Laurence even recognizes him.

“I showed you the finest shop in this town, and of course you ignore me,” he mourns. The French slips through the air and takes a moment to parse.

Laurence blinks, then responds in kind: “That shop was closed. I thought - “

“Then you must come back another day,” Alexander declares. “Do not settle! Come, if you are here anyway I will show you better places to be.”

Slightly annoyed at the presumption, Laurence lets himself be pulled along. “I have found little of interest in Dover.”

“If you are keen to haunt booksellers, I can show you something better; there is a nice parlor that has a print-room. You have been inside one, I assume? It is an excellent place, it has an excellent atmosphere - “

“I have not seen any place in Dover worth quite that praise,” says Laurence dubiously. With a touch more loyalty he adds, “Though I will not doubt that one exists; very well.”

They step into a decent part of the town this week, to Laurence's ill-concealed relief; evidently Alexander does not spend _all_ his time skulking in alleys. The owner seems to know the foreigner by sight, meaning that he eyes Alexander with a certain wariness and winces from his blithe French.

“It is so large” Laurence says, with some surprise upon entering. “ - Do the proprietors keep a special collection?”

“Oh yes,” says Alexander, gesturing to the walls. “Caricatures of the war and that French Emperor. What else?”

Small cuttings – some from papers, some clearly prepared for individual sale – are framed, tucked, and pinned to every clear space of the wall. Black and white depictions of oversized soldiers, unusual painted ladies with fluttering fans, and, as Alexander has noted, a thousand depictions of the French Empire in one form or another. The French eagle and Napoleon's own bit of heraldry, his golden bee, pop out from strange corners of the room. Only four others are mulling through the room, all men murmuring quietly to one another. Women would not be seen in such a place – would not be _permitted_ in such a place – a distinction that strikes Laurence suddenly as particularly arbitrary after his time at the covert, whereas before he would have not considered the issue at all; he has no doubt Captain Roland, and even Captain Harcourt, would look at some of the more lurid depictions with particular delight.

“It must take a great deal of confidence in oneself,” says Alexander suddenly, “for a common man to draw up the Emperor of a nation hanging by his neck, and expect people to laugh at it. Some of these pictures are clever, and others are barbaric! That is what passes for wit, I suppose.”

“Perhaps that is commentary in itself,” Laurence says. “They only mock a man who also pretends to be more than he is.”

“You cannot deny this Napoleon _is_ an Emperor.”

“He has made himself one; he was not born to the role, and he won it only through fear.” The pictures of Napoleon look oddly familiar, Laurence thinks suddenly. He grimaces at a few particularly ugly ones.

“What, the Bourbon kings did not? But he _is_ a bit arrogant, perhaps,” Alexander concedes. He peers at a particularly large frame featuring an avaricious Napoleon, fork and knife in hand, leaning over the globe of the world. “But not without cause, you must agree. It is one thing to sneer when a man does not understand his abilities, or makes empty boasts – quite another, when he makes himself Emperor!”

“Well, he shall not win the war forever,” Laurence finds himself saying. “We have had word – Napoleon is missing from Paris. His advisors cannot find him.”

“I have not read that,” Alexander says. “Well, perhaps he was killed. Politics are an unpleasant business. Or perhaps he is just ill – but surely you do not think that changes anything?”

“The Empire has become strong, but it will not last without Bonaparte,” Laurence insists. “The morale of the army depends upon him.”

“Morale is important; men are more important. I suppose we shall see.”

Saying so, Alexander suddenly points to another picture.

“Is that meant to be Talleyrand?” he demands. “Why do they make him so tall?”

* * *

 

Temeraire's drilling improves due to his newfound rivalry with the French dragon Praecursoris, but a fit of melancholy strikes him after a few weeks. “Laurence,” he says one night, as the crew is dismantling his harness or leaving at the end of the day, “What happens when there is no war?”

Laurence frowns. “You must be more specific, dear.”

“We are practicing for battles because there is a war, so we must fight – but what happens when there is no reason for us to fight? What do dragons do in peacetime?”

“Much the same thing,” Laurence says, “But with less danger; dragons of the Corps are expected to be ever-ready. Though I admit I cannot claim to have experience with that state of affairs; England has been at war for years, and I was not familiar with any aviators during peace.”

Lieutenant Granby has overheard. About to walk away, he lingers and explains, “I'm afraid dragons are put on patrol during peace, just as during war – only difference is, they patrol the whole country instead of focusing on our coast near France. The dragons drill just about as often. Of course,” adds Granby with a touch of bitterness, “the government stops caring about dragons during peacetime, and we must scrounge and beg for funds. The Peace of Amiens was a depressing few months for everyone, you can be sure.”

This merits an explanation of the economics of war. Temeraire is visibly offended at the notion that anyone should be afforded less respect when they have outlived use. “But when one provides no service to the government, they cannot expect free provisions,” Laurence says.

“That is very well,” Temeraire says, “And I may agree with you, if you are able to propose any alternative services we are allowed to provide _except_ those required by a government in war,” and then of course Laurence is left floundering.

“Breeding, I suppose,” says Granby as though the question were not rhetorical. “Though England also likes to pretend that we can just toss aside the Corps, and all our eggs, after the war; you know at the end of our _last_ war they proposed crushing all the unhatched eggs. Said if dragons live for two-hundred years, our present group would live just well until they needed to increase - “

“Crush eggs!” Temeraire cries, and for once Laurence finds himself equally appalled.

“Oh, yes.” Granby warms to the topic. “Except the couriers; they might be fine. But the heavy-weights are the first to go - “

“Thank you, Mr. Granby,” Laurence snaps. But the damage is done.

“Why, let me propose crushing houses and – and – and _other things,_ and see how Government likes it!” Temeraire snaps. Pausing, he looks to Laurence and asks lowly, “Laurence, how do people hatch if you have no eggs?”

Granby coughs.

Laurence stammers for a moments; fortunately Temeraire grows impatient. “Of course I would not _really_ stamp out eggs, or whatever you have,” he says. “But, oh! I grow so frustrated! Do you know that Levitas returned from another mail-run yesterday?” The change of topic is briefly distracting.

“How does that signify - “

“He was not well at all, he is so very ill; of course Rankin does not care! But you do not care either; everyone will say it is Levitas' duty to do whatever he is told. Laurence, I have been thinking...”

Granby winces.

“Only,” Temeraire says, “It has occurred to me that perhaps if Praecursoris and Choiseul left France because Napoleon is a terrible leader, and no one seems to think it was wrong of them to do so, and there is no reason...”

“My dear,” Laurence interrupts. Granby is already looking around covertly as though to check that they are quite alone. “I pray that you say no such things among any company; such notions are nearly treasonous. You could be accused of _inciting_ treason, at the very least.”

“But it is not treason at all,” Temeraire protests. “Only Rankin is terrible, and I do not know how anyone can say that Levitas would be betraying _England_ to get away from him. I am sure England would benefit more with a better captain, anyway,” he adds with a particularly disgruntled air, and Granby quickly coughs.

“Be that as it may,” Laurence notes dryly, “That is not your assessment to make.” Temeraire seems ready to argue. Granby is already backing away, reluctant both to assist this poor cause but also unwilling to gainsay another captain. Noting a figure skulking at the edge of the clearing, Laurence calls, “Captain Choiseul!”

The man obligingly comes forward; Laurence supposes he has little to do around the covert. “Perhaps you will oblige us by settling a disagreement,” Laurence offers.

“I would be only glad to assist, if I can,” Choiseul says.

“Temeraire has often asked how other countries treat dragons and manage their forces – perhaps you might tell us how you fought under King Louis.”

“You will forgive me for saying that I miss France dearly,” Choiseul says. He tells Temeraire, “The coverts were similar, of course; they are similar all over the world, because of course these models have been tried and tested and are quite the best for both dragons and aviators. But there are small differences – minor comforts – which England lacks. My Praecursoris complains of boredom, and not without cause; there is no competition here! In France the dragons held annual races, you know, and the winners were recognized by the king. But drills were more important than anything.” He has evidently heard of Temeraire's difficulty with the tedious tasks.

Temeraire persists, “But how do dragons choose their captains? That is to say – _is_ there a choice? For that is something which I have been trying to ask about; if a dragon is unhappy, can he or she pick another captain?”

Choiseul side-eyes Laurence. “Well,” he says. Laurence straightens. “Well,” Choiseul repeats. “I suppose different circumstances might merit – different considerations. I cannot say... perhaps.”

“Which is to say, no,” Temeraire sighs.

“I do not - “

“If you cannot say 'yes'! in all cases, then we have no rights at all,” Temeraire says firmly. “No; I quite see. I must think about this, because I think there is a serious problem in the Corps, and I am going to fix it.”

“Oh no,” Granby mutters.

“...Fix it how?” Laurence asks warily. “Dear, I am sure that any dragon could not be _forced_ to fight, so if that is your only concern - “

“But there must also be a choice.” Temeraire jerks his head away. “Oh; I cannot explain; I should not have to explain. It is perfectly frustrating, Laurence, to think that dragons are expected to fight, and must beg and wheedle and connive to get away from it, even sacrificing the captains they get from birth – all that, only to go into breeding grounds. I cannot explain myself. But it is not right and I am going to help dragons like Levitas. I will.”

Choiseul bows slightly. “I think I have come on the end of a bad conversation,” he says, politely, “but I wish you the best luck in your endeavors.”

And then he flees like a coward.

Granby makes his excuses too, and Temeraire declines all attempts to pull his attention to simple distraction; finally, in a strangely dark mood, Laurence finds himself walking and leaving the covert entirely. Eventually his feet make a brisk pace for Dover. He is not precisely angry. He cannot be angry; the crux of the problem, is that – as is so often the case – Temeraire is not _wrong._

It is dark when he arrives in town. A few stragglers are still walking here and there, some stinking of whiskey. The pubs are the most popular attraction of Dover by far. After a moment he hears a familiar call. “Laurence! You will find no books at this hour!”

By now Laurence is barely surprised to see Alexander – though it does strike him, very suddenly, as strange that the man should always be wandering. He wonders what work the foreigner has found in town.

“I am not looking for books,” Laurence replies, allowing Alexander to reach his side. “Merely walking – but you, I see, have been busy.” Alexander carries a stack of papers, quills, and two bottles of ink.

He wears a sword on his hip as well, Laurence notes. That isn't too strange these days, but it suits him oddly well.

“I have been writing,” Alexander enthuses. “It is good to do it outside – the atmosphere is better.”

Laurence looks around doubtfully as another drunk staggers down the street.

“My rooms are very small,” Alexander clarifies.

“I see. What have you been writing?”

“I have taken an interest in this war,” Alexander says. “You would not believe how often strangers have rudely accosted me, accusing me of being a French spy! Well, I have made a study of the event, and I cannot say I think much of England's stance.”

“That shall hardly incline anyone to think you less of a spy,” says Laurence warily. Glancing the topmost paper in Alexander's grip, he says, “I hope you do not mean to distribute that?”

“I have actually been assisting a printer in town,” says Alexander. “He does not usually create essays, but perhaps a few select excerpts - “

“You are going to get arrested,” Laurence despairs.

“Only if my message is very loud, and the government sufficiently competent; only one of these things is likely and I think you might guess which. Unfortunately my lack of English has been an impediment. I am hardly likely to do anything if I do not improve.”

“Publish in Italian,” says Laurence immediately. Better than French, too, which is still readable to too-large an audience.

Alexander continues as though he has not heard: “I have picked up something of the language, but not enough to pass as native, certainly. And speech is harder than writing.”

“Well, you must learn to _speak_ the language - “

“Only if I want to avoid getting shot, certainly.”

Laurence hesitates. “I must protest against your writings – both for the content I suspect you have included, and the lack of forethought in openly provoking the government. But, if you are so determined, I might be able to arrange more visits to Dover - “

Alexander catches on. “Excellent! And we might converse in English, instead.” He switches to that language: “I thank you much!”

Laurence winces.

* * *

 

For more than a month Laurence makes frequent trips to Dover.It is not difficult to find the time, for indeed half the covert is laying about in restless unease, and any distraction – including a surge in leave-time – is an acceptable outlet if it distracts everyone from wondering why the French dragons have started tightly patrolling their coast, ignoring the Channel utterly while ships are recalled. Despite the visits he finds himself including Alexander when he sends out long letters to his more distant friends, and perhaps as punishment is reduced to interpreting his friend's messy, enthusiastic scrawl in return. Alexander sends him a quick note once when he cannot get away for almost a fortnight, attaching a newspaper clipping he has already seen and saying, “The _Morning Post_ talks as though you are all fighting battalions over our sleeping heads! I love how these papers fib.”

And between all this Laurence keeps remembering: _Napoleon disappeared._

Speculation runs rampant. August fades into September, and after yet another day of uneventful patrols Temeraire asks Laurence, “Does this mean we are going to invade France?”

Laurence is utterly taken aback.

“I have heard fears before,” Temeraire says, “that France would invade England; now that Napoleon is gone, and they seem so very afraid, it seems people think _we_ should make some move, which I find a much more sensible proposition than waiting around to be attacked instead.”

“Temeraire,” Laurence protests. “We should never seek out battle.” Temeraire, who has spent several weeks doing just this while searching for French formations up and down the Channel, seems a bit doubtful of his captain's assertion. “ - In any case, all of the French forces seem to be gathered together now; a security measure, I must assume, in the event anyone does just what you are thinking and tries to take advantage of the Emperor's absence. Napoleon was not the only military commander in that country.”

“Yes, but he was the best,” Temeraire says. “And now he is gone; and do you know, Laurence, that people keep talking about what it all means, but no one can explain why he left?”

* * *

 

“You should accompany me to London,” Alexander says.

“You should stop cheating,” Laurence counters, “and speak in English.” A passing woman eyes Alexander warily. “Why are you going to London?”

Alexander continues to speak in French: “This city is insufferably boring. I suppose London will be boring, too, but everyone says it is not. At least I will have some hope for a day or two before I am miserable again.”

Laurence should really never introduce Alexander to Temeraire, he reflects suddenly and intensely.

“I wonder what you did before coming to Dover. Do you never think of who you might have been?” Laurence asks.

“Rarely,” Alexander dismisses. “Either no one cared for me, and I do not have cause to miss anyone, or I suppose I did such terrible things that I am worth forgetting, and therefore it is better that I, too, forget what I might have accomplished personally. There can be no other reason that I have not been found by friends and acquaintances.”

“No other reason?” Laurence demands. “That is entirely morbid, Alexander. I imagine it would have been nearly impossible to find you; you would have been well imagined dead by anyone with sense. And why assume you have done nothing of any worth?”

“That is not what I said. It is quite possible I did grand, important things. Likely, even,” says the scholar without a hint of modesty. “I am perfectly intelligent, perfectly capable. But people doing important things must often commit terrible actions; it is a by-product of duty. Perhaps my flaws overcame the good I accomplished, and so no one came to fish me from the sea – maybe someone pushed me in!”

Sometimes Laurence wonders, wearily, if Alexander's philosophical rambles are only jokes and teasings. He is never quite sure. “I dislike your outlook on life.”

“Yet you cannot refute me,” says Alexander cheerily. “You would call me cynical, Laurence, and so how is it that _you_ are always so serious?”

“Someone must be,” Laurence says, but he smiles faintly when Alexander only laughs at him.

* * *

 

The next time Laurence visits Dover he finds Alexander missing, the flat empty, and the landlady says she hadn't seen her odd tenant for a week. It is entirely like Alexander to rush away with no word, but Laurence realizes with some embarrassment that he has no other reason to visit the town at all. He returns to the covert.

And his early return is noticed; nearly noon, half the covert runs drills while the other half idles away, and both halves are equally bored. The French are still oddly silent and there hasn't been any decent action in over a month. Granby is writing a few letters while some ensigns “practice” their duelling (they seem to have devolved into chasing each other with the swords at this point). Cadet Roland intercepts Laurence before he can reach the relative safety of Temeraire's sleeping wings.

“Sir,” she says, “I'd like liberty in town for the day.”

Laurence pauses, well remembering his previous misstep upon arrival to the covert. “With Captain Roland?” he asks.

The cadet looks mulish. “With Ensign Tanner and Midwingman Hosland.”

“I am afraid not,” he says at once.

Roland turns indignant. “But Sir - “

“You may certainly have liberty for the day, Cadet, but not in town.” And certainly not in such company.

Granby strolls over; he seems to have finished his letters. “Now, what's this?”

“I don't see why everyone else can go to town,” Roland insists. “It's just because I'm a girl, isn't it?”

“It would not be appropriate - “ Laurence begins.

“Oh, let the poor girl have some fun,” says his traitorous first lieutenant. He never faced these issues in the navy.

Roland accuses, “ _You've_ been going to Dover a lot, Sir.”

Horrifyingly, Laurence feels his face redden.

Next to him Granby snickers. “Well, she's not wrong,” he says.

For a moment Laurence almost explains himself and mentions Alexander, but something withholds him. Anyway, making excuses seems even guiltier than just ignoring the accusations.

So he doesn't know why he says, “I have a friend there – and Temeraire enjoys books from the town.”

“Did you get your friend from the _Directory of Covent Garden Ladies?”_ Roland asks cheekily.

Laurence sputters – less at the implication than the specificity of it. “You – why do you know what that is?”

Roland looks delighted. “Why do _you?”_

In the navy, a good First Lieutenant would rebuke a subordinate officer for such cheek; because this is not the navy, Granby grins his own delight and watches Laurence expectantly.

“I do not – that is – you should not be asking such questions – return to your studies, Cadet,” Laurence snaps. “I'll reconsider the matter later.”

“Yes, Sir!” Roland salutes brightly. Evidently feeling she's scored a victory, the cadet flounces away without even pressing her point.

“Well,” says Granby, with some very unconvincing sympathy, “I am sure she is very ashamed.”

Laurence eyes him darkly. Granby manages an admirably straight face. “In Dover there is no one near as impudent as my own crew,” Laurence informs him.

“Ah, well,” Granby says. “You should do something about that, Sir.”

Dryly, Laurence responds, “I suggest you return to your work before I do, Lieutenant.”

* * *

 

_Laurence,_

_Are you aware that the Crown keeps swans? A pair chased me down the Thames and I could not even stab them. I hate those birds and also this entire idiot country._

* * *

 

Alexander returns as though he never left, a bit sour, and declares that London is certainly the worst city in the world.

Laurence cannot even bring himself to be offended.

“Also I think my English is improved,” says Alexander as they walk through Dover. His English has actually improved remarkably (suspiciously) fast, but Laurence concedes that Alexander's full immersion in a country of speakers may have contributed to this. Nevertheless, he has seen some hints of the man's ridiculous tracts of writing and wonders if he hasn't befriended a second Temeraire. “I have finished my treatise, also,” he adds.

“You have never said what it is about,” Laurence reminds him.

“Then you must read it,” Alexander declares, and Laurence resigns himself to leaving the sunny day behind as Alexander ushers him energetically to his empty apartment.

Once there Laurence says, “It occurs to me that perhaps I have encouraged you too much,” sighing, and he looks about. But Alexander makes no motion to search through his cluttered documents.

“It occurs to me that perhaps I have not encouraged you enough,” is the Frenchman's response, and when Laurence frowns: “What,” Alexander asks, “Did you _actually_ want to read my treatise? It is not even finished yet.”

Laurence sputters. “Then why,” he begins -

Alexander presses him against the room's faded oak wall, raised wood scratching against his back as Laurence fumbles to find his footing. He doesn't know how to meet the kiss, and then he does, recognizing months of incidental meetings and quiet exchanges and sealing it all by clasping Alexander tighter to his own warmth. He doesn't go back to the covert that night.

(Laurence actually does read Alexander's draft in the morning, though. It's abominable).

* * *

 

“What's got you in such a good mood this week?” Berkley grumps. Laurence wouldn't flush except that he's been asked a similar question three times today.

Fortunately Captain Choiseul joins their table in the dining hall at just that moment, saving him from a reply. “I had hoped to do some real good for the crown when I left France,” he says, voice a little odd. “And now not a bit of fighting on either end!

“And we manage to get injured dragons anyway,” Berkley says bitterly. Laurence straightens, and Berkley explains in a low voice. “Have you not heard? Captain Rankin has neglected Levitas half to death – flew him to his family estate and tied the poor blighted thing to a stable, if you can believe it, for four nights. Then hit him bloody for being too weak to fly back. Suppose Rankin's been frustrated about the war, too, but you don't take it out on your dragon!”

Laurence is appalled. “Is Levitas - “

“Sick as a dog,” Berkley says. “And meek as one.”

“I cannot imagine,” says Choiseul. “My Praecursoris is as dear to me as life.”

“Surely the admiral will not stand for it.”

“He was spitting, but there's not much he can do – Rankin could complain above Lenton, and no one but aviators _care_ what happens to a little courier - “

A terrible thought occurs to Laurence. “You must not tell Temeraire,” he blurts. The other captains pause and look at him with surprise. But his concern, he feels, is well-warranted. “I am entirely earnest; he may well kill Rankin, and I do not know that I could stop him.”

“Good lord, he would,” Berkley says. Familiar with Temeraire's particularly strong sense of injustice, they all agree to silence on the matter.

Laurence would have done well to take his own advice.

* * *

 

“That is disgusting,” Alexander seethes. “ - We must do something.”

Laurence has only been giving vent to his anger; now, quickly, he backtracks. “There is nothing to be done,” he says quickly. “Nothing at all.”

“There is always something to be done,” Alexander declares. “We will save this small dragon and condemn his worm of a captain to chains. Or die trying.”

A horrifying vision unfolds – Alexander storming into the covert, like as not challenging Rankin to a duel or something equally ridiculous, and meanwhile the pressing question; why would Laurence discuss covert matters with this rash stranger at all? He raises a hand anxiously, pressing Alexander's shoulder. “I cannot recommend that action,” he insists. “It would be interference of the worst sort - “

“Sometimes interference is necessary,” Alexander says. “Or else how will there be change? No; perhaps a good shake is just what this man needs.”

And _that_ evokes an entirely new set or terrible images. “Alexander - “

“Dear Laurence, you know it is true. Now, come, it is far past time that I visit your covert anyway.”

So Laurence is forced to accompany Alexander – if only so the man does not get himself shot, he despairs.

* * *

 

Alexander is a bit like a small dragon himself, stomping furiously into the covert with complete disregard for manners, propriety, and anything resembling the law. No one, unfortunately, tries to stop him, and by some bizarre and horrible happenstance he finds Levitas' clearing with almost unerring accuracy.

Also, Rankin is there.

Rankin is there, hissing to Levitas, “Get up, you miserable creature, you cannot lie about crying all week,” and just as Laurence thinks that perhaps he should not hold back Alexander that man grabs Rankin by the shoulder and hurls him bodily through the air.

Laurence gawks.

Perhaps Alexander _was_ a soldier.

Rankin topples head-over-heels, sprawling with an undignified crunch and then scrambling to his knees. “How dare you!” He yelps, hurrying immediately for his sword. A few people have already approached to watch, but no one intervenes.

“You take advantage of this pitiable creature and act like I have outraged you?” Alexander demands. The words are English but slurred with an accent almost too thick to understand, slipping clumsily with his anger.

“Get away from my Captain,” Levitas says.

'Pitiable' is truly the correct word. Levitas is in the poorest state Laurence has seen him. His pale scales are blotched blue and purple where they are not dark with dried flakes of blood. He wheezes faintly – signs of the sickness Berkley mentioned, no doubt – and even now he barely raises his head in protest at Rankin's treatment; a sure sign of poor health in any dragon.

“I will not,” Alexander says. The crowd is getting larger. “Not until he apologizes to you and amends his behavior.”

Rankin stumbles to his feet, red-faced. “Captain Laurence, have _you_ brought this man to the covert? Control your guest!”

Laurence feels a flush crawl up his neck, but admits, “I cannot in good conscience try to stop him, Captain.”

Rankin sputters. And then the dragons start to arrive.

Evidently drawn by the crowd, a Yellow-Reaper pokes its head above the treeline shielding Levitas' clearing, and then suddenly they're being swarmed by a curious, hulking crowd of wings. Alexander is as unfazed as though he's spent a lifetime among dragons, but Laurence winces to see a particular black hide among the craning necks.

He catches sight of Captain Choiseul among the watchers, too, and spares a moment to blush over the scene. But the foreign captain doesn't appear judgmental. Choiseul has lost all the color on his face. He stares at Alexander without moving.

“What are you all staring at,” a voice calls. The aviators part in a ripple as Admiral Lenton walks through. “Disperse at once!”

Laurence tugs his neckcloth – to explain, to apologize, he doesn't know – and Alexander interrupts, “Sir, I am not going anywhere.”

Everything derails from there.

* * *

 

“You are very fortunate that Lenton is a forgiving man,” Laurence says. “And that we do not have any manpower to waste guarding a jail cell.”

Alexander is still annoyed. “I find it difficult to believe that no one has tried to punch Captain Rankin before,” he argues.

“I quite agree,” Temeraire says. “Laurence, why have you not introduced me to your friend before? I quite like him.”

Laurence was afraid he would.

Laurence should really insist on escorting Alexander back to Dover, but the fact of the matter is that no one _does_ seem to mind his presence; in fact, more than one officer had slipped him a quick grin on their way to Temeraire's covert after Lenton's scolding. Interference might be frowned upon, but Rankin's actions might finally have gone too far. Even the admiral's reproof – rather necessary, considering Rankin's bloodied nose – seemed half-hearted at best.

“Laurence has told me a great deal about you,” Alexander tells Temeraire, much to the dragon's delight. “He says you enjoy Newton's work?”

Suddenly Captain Choiseul edges into the clearing.

“I beg your pardon,” he says, oddly nervous. The French captain flinches at their attention. “Sir,” he says – addressing Alexander. “I would speak with you. If you have a moment.”

“I have a thousand,” Alexander replies. Temeraire watches as they walk away, then turns to Laurence.

“You see,” he says. “Clearly it is perfectly fine to tell Rankin how terrible he is, and I do not see why I cannot squash him, just like your friend did. I am sure I would do a far better job at it.”

Alexander returns amidst the resulting argument, his mood dampened, and Laurence is obligated to ask if there is a problem.

“No,” says Alexander abruptly. “None at all Just a slight – it is a ludicrous thought. Ridiculous!” But he frowns, as he says it, and will say nothing more until Temeraire offers to fly him back to Dover as the day deepens.

* * *

 

Choiseul vanishes quite suddenly. Apparently he requested a transfer to Loch Laggan. Laurence heads to Dover a few weeks later and, at Alexander's insistence, retires to the man's apartment to look over a few more papers. (They are all equally wordy, and equally ridiculous).

He refrains from saying so, and tries to distract by mentioning, “You will be glad to hear that your scene did have some benefit; the admiralty board is considering pressing charges against Captain Rankin for negligence of his post.” His post, and not Levitas specifically, but it is victory of a sort. “Also, we have had interesting news from France. I suppose it will not reach the papers until tomorrow.”

“News?” Alexander asks absently. He is polishing his hand-and-a half sword, and looks half-ridiculous surrounded by quills and ink.

“Joseph Bonaparte has taken the throne – I fear no one can say what has become of Napoleon,” Laurence says. “Perhaps his family killed him. I should not be surprised.”

Something strange happens.

An odd series of contortions crosses over Alexander's face. He abandons the sword, dropping it onto his lap with the cleaning rag. “Joseph,” he echoes. “Joseph on the throne - “

“Alexander?”

The man looks at him.

“I think I have remembered something,” says Alexander slowly.

It takes Laurence a moment to understand.

“From your past? But that is excellent – what do you remember?”

“That Joseph is not fit to lead a wagon without two drivers pulling the reigns.” Alexander says viciously. When Laurence stares he adds, a bit more calmly: “ - That was unkind. Joseph is very capable. But certainly he will flounder. King of Spain, king of _Austria,_ Denmark, he could be king of any government in the world and do well. But France...”

“Whyever would Joseph Bonaparte be king of Denmark,” asks Laurence. “That is not even a French territory, nor is Austria.“

“I am confused, of course,” snaps Alexander. Standing, he grabs up his sword and fumbles for a sheath. His beloved essays fall to the floor. He steps on one and doesn't seem to notice. “I am sorry; I must ask for privacy. I have remembered too much at once, perhaps - “

Laurence stands and hesitates. “If you should like a doctor - “

“I would not.”

Laurence pauses again, but course he can do nothing but offer a shallow bow and depart. As he leaves something in the room clatters, long and high, and a string of muffled cursing follows.

He hears a loud and distinct utteration, _“Bonaparte!”,_ but nothing else can be understood.

* * *

 

Patrols tighten for the next week as England waits to see how France will react to her new leader. Rumors float all over the covert: will the hostilities continue? Could this mean peace?

Soon Laurence receives a curt letter asking him to come to Dover – to go as soon as possible – and, remembering Alexander's odd behavior of late, he finds an excuse to go to the town.

When he arrives Alexander's small living space is entirely upturned. “Come in, come in, I feared you would never come at all,” he says. Alexander holds a bag on one arm. He shifts through his desk with the other, pushing aside treasured books with careless haste until he finds something – a scrap of parchment, tied with string, oddly familiar – and it vanishes down the bag. “Laurence,” he says. “I am sorry.”

Laurence stays in the doorway. “You are leaving,” he says.

“I told you I remembered,” Alexander says. “I will be blunt..”

“You are French.”

“France is my home; I have been a soldier; I will not hide it.”

The first sensible thing Laurence thinks to say is, “Why tell me this?”

“Because you do not have to stay,” Alexander says fiercely. “You are a man the army could use – you and Temeraire – you cannot dream of the opportunity, Laurence, and there is no reason...“

Laurence shakes his head. Grabs the door. “I cannot. You know I cannot.“

Alexander is silent a moment.

“You know I cannot,” Laurence repeats.

“Then will you try to stop me? I would not want to fight you, Laurence. I will if I must.”

“No. But I must report you – later – to someone - “

“You must not report yourself,” says Alexander sharply.“Whatever happens – if this has meant anything, then promise me that. Whatever you discover, whatever you learn, promise me.”

Laurence hesitates.

“Say it,” Alexander insists.

“Very well.” Laurence is tired. “I will not incriminate myself. Though how you expect me to live with the knowledge I cannot imagine.”

“I expect you to wait – because we will meet again,” Alexander says. “I refuse to think otherwise, Laurence. If I must tear down all of England myself, and burn all her flags, we will meet again.”

Alexander's words are as grandiose and meaningless as his essays, swept aside and forgotten even now in the corners of this little beaten apartment. But he steps forward and grasps Laurence to him, one final time, and they still fit together perfectly.

When Alexander leaves, Laurence remains standing for several long moments. At last he moves and collects the remaining books, the failed and painfully edited parchments, the small clippings and scattered pieces of a life thrown away.

When he has everything he looks further, and realizes he cannot find a single one of his letters.

* * *

 

On Sunday Laurence tells Admiral Lenton of his suspicions that his dear friend Alexander might be a French spy. He gives no hint of their latest meeting. Dover is scoured from North to South, but the man himself cannot be found.

Tuesday night Laurence sits by Temeraire's side under a half-moon, fingering through one of Alexander's more verbose papers and struggling to appear cheerful when a Greyling wings overhead. Cadet Roland races into the clearing minutes later, her cheeks pink, eyes wide with exhilaration and horror both:

“Napoleon is back!” She cries. “Napoleon is back in France! Captain, the war is still on!”

 

 

 


End file.
